Divinity
by Bitter Baristas
Summary: Morty Smith was more than met the eye. He knew Rick better than anyone else, better than Rick knew himself.


Rick was many things. Powerful, intelligent, quick thinking, agile, and strong. He was cold, uncaring, logical to a fault, and an arrogant alcoholic who destroyed worlds in his blackouts. He was, despite his attempts to convince everyone otherwise, afraid. Afraid to feel anything that might lead to the hurt of loss. Morty watched his grandfather compliment Beth, and on the rare occasion embrace her, but she did not sense the disingenuity of it as Morty did. Rick went through the necessary motions only to serve his own agenda, using Beth's insecurity and fear to manipulate her.

But Morty knew even Rick was not so heartless. The man did love Beth, he was sure. He'd never admit it. He had to convince himself the family was just a necessary evil, and after years the man had begun believing his own con.

Morty knew.

He was not as slow as everyone perceived him, not as glossy and wide-eyed as he let on. Just as Rick was not as cruel. The man had the power to literally jump into another life if it suited him, to find a Beth willing to let him exploit Morty at his leisure. Yet he didn't. In infinite opportunity, he stayed with this family. The family that Rick, Summer, and Morty knew, was not their original.

A fact that he was sure they all let slip into the oblivion of their minds. In this universe his mother drank the same wine. Summer snuck out with the same on-again-off-again boyfriend her parents didn't care about to feel rebellious. His father played the same tablet apps.

After the gruesome task of burying their mangled bodies in shallow graves Morty had stood in the shower until the hot water ran cold. The tiles in this bathroom were equally yellowed, grout cracked in the same places, the rust rings circling the drain indiscernible from his original universe. Even the shampoo and the conditioner were the same brand.

It was easy to forget.

It was easy to go from hating his grandfather to admiring him.

To forget that most Ricks' abused their Morty's, and that his Rick was unusually gentle compared to his alternate counterparts.

Was he Rick's first Morty? Had another Morty been killed or rendered useless and replaced with him?

A shudder ran through him.

That, too, was a possibility he preferred to let stay in the dark corners of his mind.

Morty pulled his covers up to his chin, staring at the dark ceiling. As a child he'd been scared of the dark. After years of adventures with Rick he learned that there were many very real things to be scared of. Literal monsters hellbent on making him a meal or pedophelic jellybeans making unwanted advances in dirty bathrooms.

The boy inhaled and sat up. He sat unmoving at the edge of the bed with his head dangling between his legs for a long moment before finding the strength to stand.

Nightmares had kept him from a full night's sleep for years, and tonight was no exception. He tiptoed along the hall, pausing to peer into his mother's bedroom. She lay sprawled across the entire bed, hugging Jerry's pillow to her chest. Disappointment, resentment and poor compatibility did not erase seventeen years of sharing a life together. That large bed no doubt felt lonely, a loneliness she eased with wine, if the discarded bottles littering her floor were any indication.

Morty crept on to Summer's room. He eased the closed door open and was relieved to see her asleep and cuddling a stuffed animal. More than once she had left in the night to meet her boyfriend so they could get high or drunk together, but the fun of it diminished when their mother stopped questioning her about the nightly excursions.

He moved quietly through the house, avoiding the creaky step on the stairs and leaving the lights off.

He found the garage empty. Apparently, Rick too had found sleep. Morty frowned and made his way to the living room, where he flopped onto the couch and began flipping through the thousands of international channels. The glow of the television illuminated the room, shining on his pale skin.

Sighing, he rose and slipped out the back door. He crouched beside a bush and retrieved a pack of cigarettes and lighter housed in a plastic bag. His mother was probably too far gone to care about him smoking, but he couldn't bear to break her heart anymore. Her denial astonished him, but he was still supposed to be the good kid.

He clamored onto the garbage can and nimbly walked across the patios roof, steps calculated with a practiced ease. With a grace few were privy to witness he pulled himself onto the main roof and laid down in the sloping groove where two sections of roof met. A spark lit the night and soon the embers of his cigarette glowed against the darkness. Morty inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs, perhaps hoping to blacken them with cancer, and held it for a moment before blowing the grey cloud into the air. It wafted upwards, almost purple with the navy sky behind it.

Morty cushioned his head with one hand, the other poised to bring the cigarette to his lips. He smoked leisurely, staring at the stars flung across the cosmos like a handful of diamonds on a velvet sheet. Rick said there was no God, and he'd be the closest thing to it, anyway.

He couldn't contest that. When he conjured an the image of divinity bloodshot eyes steeped in shadows were all that looked back at him. Those inky pupils had seen the birth and death of civilizations and were impassive to it all. Few things made tears brim in those eyes.

And yet for as high and thick as Rick had built his defences Morty could climb the walls and perch atop them. The psyche of his grandfathers mind was a labyrinth, riddled with booby traps and bombed out from detonated landmines. Morty knew minotaurs and demons lurked in those long alleyways, guarding painful memories.

He knew these things and others, had heard them straight from the horse's mouth. Rick got sloppy when he got sad. He became too liberal with the liquor he consumed and the more he drank the more honest he was. Slurred secrets and dark confessions that Morty kept to himself. Rick had tried to kill himself after the bout with Unity, but that weakness did not detract from the esteem Morty held for the man.

For as many drunken admissions as Morty had heard, Rick was careful to never mention him. Morty saw those gleams of affection when Rick was mostly sober. The man yelled and scorned him, and yet he valued Morty as more than an intellect shield. After blackout drinking and scheming to humiliate the Vindicators all that sober Rick could think of to put on the pedestal was Morty. And while his drunken self had chosen Noob-Noob, clear thinking Rick chose Morty.

When they were toxins Rick was fearful of losing him, he even comforted him.

Rick had, time and time again, risked his own life to save Morty's. And Rick didn't know it, but Morty had made the resolve to do the same.

Morty smoked through the pack and continued to stargaze, thinking thoughts his family would consider to complex for him. Sweet, dumb Morty didn't think about his own mortality, or his grandfathers. That, at least, was partially true. Rick seemed immortal, unburdened by the chains that anchored regular people. Fear of failure was not an issue for a genius. He did not fret over social acceptability. Rick Sanchez did what he wanted when he wanted to. If he felt like murdering the postman, he could do it and fear not of repercussion. It was as normal as the laws of physics. What goes up must come down and Rick did what he pleased.

Another established law was that Morty's and Rick's needed one another. There might be other versions of themselves that had severed the bond, a thing as difficult as amputating one's own limb, but they could never erase the imprint the other had left on their mind. They would always feel the phantom pains, always turn to ensure the other was close by before remembering that they were alone. Always running with a ghost and flinching from old hostilities.

Morty shivered and slid from the roof, slipping into the house with a whisper. In the morning when he smelled of campfire, no one would question it.

Rick was losing control. Morty saw it in his wild eyes, heard the almost inaudible tremor in his voice. The mans withered hands shook from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Morty was on the opposite end of the spectrum. An unearthly calm had washed over and through him, acceptance enlightening him. Their chances of getting out of this situation grew slimmer and slimmer the more Rick panicked. The enemy was almost upon them and the portal gun was smashed, Rick's laser gun lost in an earlier confrontation. If Rick's hands would stop shaking he could fix it, but the fear of being captured was unraveling his nerves.

Morty knew what he had to do. He grabbed Rick by the shoulders, grip firm and grounding. They locked eyes and Morty didn't know whose voice was coming out of his mouth.

"Fix the portal gun, you can come back for me." He didn't give Rick a chance to reply and darted out from their hiding place, a rock gripped in his hand. He took brief cover up ahead before shooting up and hollering, "I'm coming, Rick!"

The boy sprinted away, drawing the attention of the searchers. They fell for the bait and chased him. Morty ran as fast as he could, legs pumping wildly and his ankles close to snapping. He clutched the stone, his only weapon for when they inevitably caught him.

His lungs were on fire and he'd only been on the run for a few minutes. He hoped that would be enough time for Rick to repair the portal gun. It would have to be, because his legs were giving out.

He rolled on the weed covered ground, dry stalks slicing open his skin. Natives surrounded him, one reaching to grab him. Morty smashed its hand with the rock and it howled. Enraged, its hands constricted around his throat and Morty could only be grateful Rick had surely escaped. As darkness fringed his vision the choking grip went slack.

Morty dropped to the ground, sucking in sweet lungfuls of air. Rick stood on the high ground, recovered laser gun having ended the lives of all their pursuers. Rick appeared at his side, examining him for injuries. Bruises would blacken his slender throat later, but they would turn purple-green and yellow and eventually disappear. Broken bones could be set and split flesh would mend, but if Rick died that was permanent. No other could take his place. As the man had said, the Mortyiest Morty needed the Rickest Rick. Two of a pair, incomplete apart and toxic together.

Rick gathered Morty's crumpled form in his arms and portled them off the planet.

In the garage Rick patched him up silently, a scowl deep set on the mans face. Morty was malleable under his deft fingers, allowing the scientist to scrutinize the most minimal of his injuries.

"Don't ever do that again." Rick said lowly, voice a pitch above growling.

Morty made no such promises, because it was a law of the universe. His universe. Rick was his god and devil, and he was a devout prophet, an archangel. He could only trust what he could not understand, and Rick had all of his undeserved faith. He would disobey again and again, because his purpose was to protect his God, not serve him.

Morty Smith was unlike any other version of himself, as was true of his Rick.

They were perhaps the most corrupt versions of themselves because of the love they harbored for one another. Kept in secret, always known to the other but never acknowledged in words. They showed their love in actions, in blood and bruises meant for the other but taken gladly to spare their partner pain.

Morty would die for Rick. He would let the devil eviscerate his soul from his body if only it would curb his God's eternal sorrow. But it wouldn't. The only thing that did that was Morty himself.

And he knew that.

Rick had told him so.


End file.
